


Bonded

by betts



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, Didn't Know They Were Dating, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Inappropriate Use of Lightsabers, Inappropriate Use of Star Wars, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Porn With Plot, Soul Bond, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, jedi padme, the author's shocking foray into heterosexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 02:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5611003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Padmé had always been better at the mental half of the Jedi code—coercion, manipulation, meditation. Anakin had always been better at the physical half—beating shit up with his lightsaber.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bonded

**Author's Note:**

> *Runs into Star Wars prequels fandom a decade late with Starbucks* Here you go, the Jedi!Padme fic nobody asked for. 
> 
> Sorry for canon inconsistencies, etc. I did as much research as I could, but I took some liberties with side characters and the Force since it's an alt-canon AU.
> 
> Padme and Anakin are the same age in this, around 18ish, set around the AotC timeline.
> 
> This fic is un-beta'd. My apologies for any errors.

“I’m sensing some aggression in the Force,” Anakin said, lifting his lightsaber to parry Padmé’s increasingly violent swings. “Perhaps it is your Majesty’s time of the month.”

“Perhaps it is the Chosen One’s time to shut the fuck up,” Padmé replied with false regality, and flipped off her lightsaber to toss it aside and tackle Anakin to the ground. He cried out in surprise and hit the mat with a dull thud, heaving.

“It’s not my fault I’m special,” Anakin told her, grinning and breathless, arms in front of his face to protect him from Padmé’s vengeance as they grappled. “You’re just a sore loser.”

“I’m not a sore loser. I haven’t lost yet,” Padmé said, but smiling now too, her playful slapping turning to tickling his sides while she straddled him.

Obi-Wan, watching the proceedings from the sidelines, pinched the bridge of his nose and told Mace beside him, “Their Trials begin tomorrow and they’re still fighting like children. They’re our top students, but around each other, they’re insufferable.”

“Feel the strength of their Force bond. They may not know it yet, but they’re in love,” Mace replied, just as Anakin took the upper-hand and flipped Padmé onto her back, pinning her and laughing. 

Obi-Wan scoffed. “No they’re—”

He watched as their eyes met and both of their smiles fell, an intimate moment not meant for the prying eyes of their mentors. Anakin scrambled back on his heels and Padmé sat up, resituating her tunic and flattening her braided hair.

Mace gave Obi-Wan a deadpan look.

“Fine,” Obi-Wan relented. “Now what?”

“We separate them.”

***

Padmé lay in bed, fingers locked together over her abdomen, floating the hilt of her lightsaber two feet above her face. She spun it with her mind, faster and faster until it created a gentle breeze like a fan. A shrill ringing sound broke her concentration, and her lightsaber fell on her face. 

“I saw that,” Anakin said from where his hologram image projected into the room.

Padmé rubbed her forehead. “At least I don’t need to use dumb hand gestures to move stuff with my head.”

Anakin put a hand over his bare chest, hurt. “Have you no appreciation for theatrics?”

She sat up in bed, and leaned against the wall of her small bedroom, legs tucked into her nightgown. “What’s wrong, Ani?” she asked, chin resting on her knees. Despite their distance—housed at polar opposite sides of the Temple—she could feel a wariness in his Force presence, in the tense line of his shoulders as he sat in his own bedroom, on the floor, pieces and parts of broken machines scattered around him.

Every day, Anakin would call her before bed and they’d let the hologram run all night, so that whenever Padmé rolled over and blearily blinked open her eyes, she’d see Anakin asleep, the hologram lighting up the center of the dark bedroom.

Sometimes Anakin had nightmares, and Padmé would have to wake him up, talk him through his panicked state. Sometimes Padmé couldn’t sleep, and Anakin would sing to her. Sometimes they just talked, for hours and hours, until the suns rose and they’d meet each other in person minutes later for breakfast.

“Obi-Wan had a bit to drink tonight,” Anakin said, picking up a broken part from the floor and twisting a screwdriver against it.

“Did he finally confess his undying love for you?” Padmé asked, grinning, and added, “Did he get on his knees to do it? Did he open wide and—”

“Oh my gods, I get it,” Anakin interrupted, a shy smile on his face. He’d always had the most obnoxiously obvious crush on his Master. Even though Anakin shone blue and flickering in the room, she could imagine the pretty flush that spread over his features. “But that’s not why I called.” He paused and continued fiddling with the device before looking at Padmé and saying, “They’re going to separate us for our Trials.”

Padmé leaned forward, stunned, “What?”

“You’re staying here, on Coruscant, to do some diplomatic negotiations on behalf of the senate.”

“And you?” Padmé had been dreaming of Knighthood since she was a child, but in every whimsical daydream, she imagined her Trials by Anakin’s side. It never occurred to her that she might have to do them alone. 

Anakin shrugged again. He avoided her eyes as he said, “I’m not sure. Aggressive negotiations, most likely.”

Back in the day, the Trials were probably staged and standardized. With the state of the Republic, however, all the Jedi Trials became real-world missions, tailored to a Jedi’s specific strengths. Padmé had always been better at the mental half of the Jedi code—coercion, manipulation, meditation. Anakin had always been better at the physical half—beating shit up with his lightsaber.

“But that’s...it’s unsafe. What if you fail?”

Anakin looked straight into the hologram, and even though it was just an image of him, his eyes bore into Padmé with the kind of intensity that had always thrilled her about him, fire that burned at the edges of his Force presence. Anakin had always been everything Padmé wasn’t and vice versa; they were so much better together than apart. 

“I will not fail,” he said, then added, quieter, “besides, Obi-Wan will be with me. He will not let harm come to me.”

The only person Anakin had more faith in than himself was Obi-Wan. 

They sat in silence, Padmé watching Anakin work, Anakin pretending this news wasn’t as serious as they both knew it was.

“Ani?” Padmé asked. She inched closer to the hologram, until Anakin’s visage grew human-sized, like he was right in front of her instead of at the other side of the Temple. 

Anakin looked up, and for a brief moment, their Force bond managed to stretch through the hologram, unbidden by their practiced shielding—a whiplash feeling of Anakin holding her, desperate, needy, clinging to her in fear, and then the shield went up again. His shielding always felt like it was splintering, cracking open any time she caught him off-guard. She couldn’t imagine what it was like to be him, the extremes of the emotional spectrum constantly coursing through him, expressive and artistic but confined into the strictness of the Jedi Order. In some ways, Padmé imagined it helped him, in much the way a dog could be trained not to bite—kept out of trouble, kept muzzled only until its teeth were needed, and put down when its owners could no longer control it. She dreaded the day the leash would break.

“If something happens...” she began.

“Nothing is going to happen, Padmé.” He gave her one of his charming smiles, the arrogant kind that were sometimes more effective at manipulation than all of Padmé’s years of intense telecoercive training. She hated them because she was prey to them; they made her stomach flip in a not-unpleasant way, made her want to do or say whatever it took to keep a smile on his face. 

She didn’t need to inch through his haphazard shielding to know he knew more about his Trial than he let on. Which meant it would be so dangerous that he probably feared Padmé’s worry for him would distract her from her own Trial. Which is exactly why their mentors probably separated them in the first place.

So Padmé lay in bed, pulling her blanket up to her shoulder, staring at Anakin’s holographic image staring back at her, and asked the only question that might help her sleep: “Promise me?”

He lay down too, right on the ground like he preferred when he was nervous, a habit borne of growing up a slave on Tattooine. “I promise.”

***

It hit Padmé in the middle of her negotiations Trial, like how she imagined it might feel if she were impaled by the bad end of a lightsaber.

Distantly, she heard Boss Naas say, “Yousa cannot tax-a flora ees not yoursa.”

To which Viceroy Gunray replied, “We export. It is our standard fee.”

“Wesa not needsa your exporta. Enough commerce-a on Naboo.”

Padmé tried to set the feeling aside, but with each beat of her heart, the pain grew worse—not physical, but a rip in the Force. She clutched the table and glanced at Mace, who stared placidly onto the proceedings between the Otolla Gungans and Trade Federation. Dozens of people sat around a long conference table, Padmé at the head between the Boss and Viceroy, the bustle of a busy Coruscant morning buzzing outside.

Gunray looked to Padmé and asked, “Do you have any suggestions, young Jedi?”

Padmé opened her mouth to reply, but an image crept into her vision, of Anakin staving off a creature with four limbs holding four lightsabers, losing, while Obi-Wan lay unconscious several feet away.

“I’m…” Then she heard Anakin shout, a howl of agony, and it shredded through every shield in the Force she’d been holding up, all her carefully balanced systems crashing down as the blood drained from her face. She stood from the table and said, “My apologies, I must be excused.”

Mace stood from the table as well and replied, “Negotiations have not been completed, Padmé. Please remain seated and present until the Trial is complete.”

She glared at him, but he was so shielded that she couldn’t tell if he knew what she knew about Anakin and Obi-Wan, or if she only knew because of the strength of their Force bond, exacerbated by Anakin’s blunt power and Padmé’s sensitivity.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, willed the Force to guide her, and looked to Boss Naas. “Naboo’s crops are integral to the necessary development of medicine across the Republic. The Trade Federation is the only efficient means of exporting it.” She looked at the Viceroy and added, “Leveraging your monopoly to exploit the Otolla Gungans and thus the people of the Republic is cruel and unnecessary. You will lower your taxation rate of the Naboo flora to that of your standard fee.”

The Viceroy replied, “We will lower the taxation rate of the Naboo flora to that of our standard fee.”

Padmé looked back at Boss Naas. “You will continue harvesting your planet’s flora at your existing rate and agree to pay the Trade Federation’s standard tax.”

“Wesa will continue-sa harvesting our planet’s flora at our—”

Padmé didn’t have time for the rest, so she held up a hand and concluded, “Thank you for your time and participation in this negotiation. If both parties are content with our resolution, I call this meeting adjourned.” Then she turned on her heel and left the room, the scuttle of movement and whispers behind her.

Mace caught up quickly and grabbed her arm, “You can’t use telecoercion as a means of diplomacy.”

“Just because no other Jedi are able to sway the minds of politicians doesn’t mean we aren’t allowed.”

“Jedi are peacekeepers. It is not our job to influence.”

“I disagree. The Jedi Order was built to uphold moral ideals. When politicians lose sight of them due to greed and malice, by all means we should intervene. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have passed my Trial, so I’m leaving.” She turned to walk away, but Mace caught her arm.

“Don’t intervene in Anakin’s Trial.”

She stopped and stared at him. So he did know. “Why?”

“He must do this himself. There will come a time when you will be separated and need to each stand on your own. There will come a time too when you have to choose the Order over your love for one another.”

“That time is not today,” Padmé replied, and jerked her arm away from him, running toward the landing pad where her ship sat. Artoo beeped at her in greeting, and as she climbed into the cockpit, she told him, “Navigate me to Anakin.”

***

Padmé could see the fight before the ship landed, blips of light clashing together that mirrored the pangs of pain in her heart. By the time she hopped out of the cockpit, her lightsaber was buzzing against her palm and she ran as fast as she could to Anakin.

General Grievous, she gathered from Anakin’s thoughts, fought with only two of his original four lightsabers, Anakin still parrying and pushing him around the hangar in the planet’s mountainside, one arm clutched to his abdomen. Exhaustion emanated from him in waves, mind obliterated by the pain of injuries that Padmé couldn’t see. The place was deserted but for Anakin, Grievous, and Obi-Wan, who lie unconscious in the corner. 

When she leapt into battle, nearly landing a fatal blow to Grievous were it not for the second lightsaber blocking her attack, Anakin caught her eye and said, “Padmé? What are you doing?”

“Attempting my maintenance Trial,” Padmé replied, narrowly ducking out of a swing, so close she could smell the singe of her hair. “Always cleaning up your shit.”

With Padmé beside him, the power of their Force bond doubled, and Anakin attacked with a renewed fervor. From the corner of her eye, she caught him smile, devious and alight with the thrill of the fight. “Is your Majesty too good for such menial tasks?” Anakin flipped over Grievous so they could flank him, and added, “Royalty of your caliber should not sully themselves with nerfherders like myself.”

“Just because I bathe regularly doesn’t make me royalty. It just means I, unlike you, don’t smell like a bantha,” Padmé said, landing a blow across Grievous’ arm, cutting it off above the elbow. Only one lightsaber remained.

“Enough!” Grievous shouted, spinning backwards to parry Anakin. “Coward child, calling upon your girlfriend to aid you.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Anakin blocked Grievous’ blow and their lightsabers met, the harsh buzzing reverberating an echo in the wide chamber, Anakin straining against Grievous’ inhuman strength. While stilled, he risked a glance to Padmé, the Force flowing raw through him, so powerfully bright that it was nearly blinding. She could see her own brightness reflected in his gaze, both of them stronger in each other’s presence.

_ Finish it,  _ Anakin told her through the Force, words ringing as clear in her mind as if he had spoken them. 

_ Your Trial though _ , Padmé replied.  _ You have to kill him to complete it. _

He smiled at her, the same infuriatingly arrogant smile as the night before.  _ I won’t tell if you don’t. _

Padmé nodded once, took a step back from the fight and holstered her weapon. She found her center and took a calming breath, then closed her eyes. She felt rather than saw Grievous lifted from the ground, and began prying apart the plates holding his body together with her mind.

“What is—” Grievous began, interrupted by his own screaming as Padmé shredded his body of his exoskeletal pieces, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

Anakin took the opportunity and shoved his lightsaber into Grievous’ open chest cavity. Padmé opened her eyes again to the clatter of his enormous body hitting the ground in a heap, Anakin following shortly after as he dropped to his knees.

She ran to him, catching him before he toppled over. His body felt like dead weight in her arms as she cradled him, but he remained mostly conscious.

“You’re going to be okay,” she said, forcing herself to believe it. She moved his hand away from his abdomen to see a cauterized wound stretched across his stomach. Blood ran down his face from a gash in his forehead, and his eyes blurred in and out of focus. “Master Windu will be here shortly and—”

“Padmé,” he said, reaching up and touching her face, thumbing over her cheekbone. He grew more pale by the moment, breathing ragged. Their Force bond cradled around them like a blanket, comforting but useless. “If I don’t make it, I need you to know something.”

The shadow of pain in the Force was agonizing; she couldn’t imagine it physically. She felt life draining from him, and bit her lip to keep from trembling, but tears welled in her eyes nonetheless. “Yes, Ani?”

Weak and wavering, he uttered, “Your Majesty still sucks at dueling,” and fell unconscious.

***

Padmé waited outside the infirmary, pacing and biting her thumbnail, a bad habit she thought she’d kicked until now.

“Perhaps some meditation would be a more productive use of your time,” Obi-Wan said as he approached her. He had a bandage across his forehead and his tunics were still burnt and tattered, but otherwise he carried the same kind of completely unnecessary put-togetherness he always did. Anakin liked calling him “fabulous” sometimes while flipping his braid behind him dramatically. As if Anakin were one to talk, insisting on wearing nothing but black leather like some kind of Sith Lord wannabe.

“Perhaps bothering your own padawan would be a more productive use of yours,” Padmé replied. “Except you can’t, because you almost got him killed.”

Obi-Wan leveled a glare at her and didn’t reply.

Her shoulders sank and she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Master Kenobi. That was out of line.”

“You shouldn’t have interfered in Anakin’s Trial,” Obi-Wan said with that monotone, pedantic condescension she hated so much. She couldn’t imagine how Anakin tolerated it. 

“But—” Padmé began.

“Between us, I am glad you did. You saved both of our lives today.” His stoic visage cracked into a small, pleased smile. “All while passing your own Trial, which I hear was quite the event.”

Relieved at not being reprimanded, Padmé smiled back at him. “Naboo politics are kind of old hat for me. Boss Naas and I go way back.”

“Ah, yes, Anakin speaks nearly nonstop about your term as queen.”

“He does?” A warm flush spread to her face.

“He also mentions rather frequently,” Obi-Wan counted on his fingers, “the softness of your hair, the sharpness of your intellect, the strength of your character, how good you smell—”

“I get it,” Padmé said, shy smile turning into a grin, probably as red as a Sith lightsaber.

An uncharacteristic sense of kindness fell over Obi-Wan’s features. Padmé took it as a sign of severe concussion. He set a comforting hand on her shoulder and said, “I don’t normally commend the blatant disregard for rules, but today I owe you my gratitude. I will ensure that the Council marks that both of your Trials have been passed.”

“Thank you, Master Kenobi.”

“However,” Obi-Wan’s sternness returned, despite the concussive bout of empathy, “there are more trials to come if you and Anakin continue on this path. Bonded Jedi are a rarity for a reason. It is not an easy life, but it must remain a balanced one.”

“I don’t foresee it becoming a problem.”

“Yet. Anakin does not possess your affinity for balance. While you may see your bond now as a strength, it does have its downfalls.”

Obi-Wan spoke like he knew from experience, so Padmé risked asking, “Have you ever been bonded?”

A shadow of sadness crept behind Obi-Wan’s eyes, his smile forlorn. “My mentor, Qui-Gonn. He passed honorably in battle shortly before I was knighted and took Anakin as my charge.”

Padmé nodded in understanding, that this was the risk, the downfall—a sense of permanent loss, like a gaping wound that never healed. She felt it through Obi-Wan’s shielding, surprised at herself for not noticing it before now, this...nothingness inside of him, the kind of darkness borne of Sith. She possessed a newfound respect for Obi-Wan, living with it day in, day out while never succumbing to it like so many Jedi before him. If anything happened to Anakin, Padmé wasn’t sure she would have the strength of Obi-Wan to remain on the light side. The thought frightened her, but not nearly as much as what Anakin would do if anything happened to her. 

“You should get some rest now,” Obi-Wan continued. “I will wait here for Anakin to wake.”

“Yes, Master Kenobi,” Padmé replied, feeling every ounce of fatigue weighing on her. She hesitated a moment, and then threw her arms around Obi-Wan. She could feel his confusion, the wary hand that patted her back. When she pulled away, she said, “I am sorry for your loss,” which was not something the Jedi were supposed to say, rather a custom of Naboo. Before Obi-Wan could lecture her on it, she hurried out of the infirmary.

***

Padmé didn’t mean to fall asleep. She had just planned to bathe and get into her sleep clothes and lie in bed poking at the Force until she felt Anakin wake.

Their Force bond fizzled around her, like plastic crinkling in the wind. It did that while she slept sometimes, just Anakin shifting in his sleep, or dreaming. Sometimes they dreamt together, and Padmé could guide Anakin away from his potential nightmares to the fields of Naboo, where they would watch the clouds pass over them until they woke.

The disturbance in the Force grew distracting enough to wake her, seconds before her bedroom door slid open. Anakin slipped inside and closed it silently behind him, not using the Force to do it, because Padmé would make fun of his silly hand gesture. 

Padmé sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. “Ani? Are you okay?”

Anakin used to sneak into Padmé’s room nearly every night for the first year she had spent at the Temple, until Mace caught them and demanded they stop. They didn’t, of course. Padmé just learned new shielding techniques from deep within the archives, but Mace eventually picked through them, and Anakin went through puberty, and the war began, and the habit fell. They switched to hologramming every night instead.

Anakin wore his usual bedtime attire: a pair of leggings cut off below the knee and no shirt, but a bandage was wrapped around his abdomen, another on his arm. He lifted the covers and Padmé scooted over unconsciously for him to slide into bed beside her.

“‘m okay,” he replied, muttered onto her skin, tucking his head under her chin and wrapping his arms around her. Even though they hadn’t done this in years, their bodies fell together naturally, easily, the same way they fought—Anakin felt more like a physical extension of her than a friend. Being this close to him felt like a wave of relief, like scratching an itch she’d spent so long ignoring that she’d just gotten used to its existence. The feeling reflected back at her in the Force, an echo of Anakin’s perception. It made her wonder how many of her thoughts he thought in tandem.

Padmé pulled the covers up around them, warm in a cozy cocoon. “How’d you get past Mace?”

“He and Obi-Wan are out for the night. I think they’re mad at us.”

“Or deliberating about us.” Even though there was no chance of being overheard, they continued whispering. “How do you feel?” It was a useless question—she could feel every inch of his body, where it hurt, where it didn’t. It wasn’t so bad, really; Anakin always healed fast.

She felt rather than saw him pout. “‘m dying,” he replied as he snuggled closer in her embrace. Their legs tangled together. His body felt big and strong and warm around hers. Her body was comparatively tiny, but she never felt small around him. He made her feel like she could do anything, like she could take over the whole universe if she wanted. Sometimes she wondered if that was how Sith felt. If it was, she almost couldn’t blame them.

She kissed the top of his head, the fuzz of his shaved hair against her lips. “Don’t be a baby.”

He looked up at her, confused. “Do that again.”

Padmé placed a kiss on his forehead. Anakin’s confusion broke into a grin. “If I keep complaining, will you keep doing that?”

Padmé rolled her eyes.

“But I got my stomach slit open today by a creepy cyborg monster,” Anakin said with a touch of a whine in his voice. 

“If this is all it takes to make you feel better, maybe I should become a healer,” Padmé replied, and kissed the tip of his nose.

Anakin shifted up the bed, his gaze flicking down to her lips, and Padmé became aware of the way his hand bunched up her nightgown around her waist, of all the points of touch of their bodies, and that they were both adults now, and—

“I almost died,” Anakin whispered, all trace of humor gone, like he just realized the dire situation they had both faced earlier in the day, “but you saved me. You risked your knighthood to save my life.”

“You would have done the same for me.” Their lips were inches apart, and she never noticed before how big and soft his were, had never seen the look on his face he gave her now, dark and wanting, their Force bond flickering with a completely new feeling.

“Padmé…” Anakin began, running his hand through her hair, gazing onto her with every ounce of his manic intensity. An amused smile crept up his face, and he said, “My gaping stomach wound is just...so incredibly painful. I don’t know what to—”

Padmé interrupted him by closing the gap between them, pressing her lips against his lightly before pulling away. “Better?”

He shook his head. “I think you should try again.”

She kissed his chin instead, and he added, “If this is the direction you’re going, I can complain all night.”

“But I’m the one who has to endure the pain of your presen—”

Anakin kissed her, a thrill flowing up her spine as they parted their lips and deepened the kiss. Their Force bond crackled around them like electricity. Padmé could feel their hearts beat in time with one another, rapid as Anakin licked her bottom lip and sucked it between his teeth. She let out a soft moan that surprised her, and it was just enough to make the situation too real, breaking apart in shock.

“We shouldn’t—” Padmé began.

“It’s uncouth,” Anakin agreed.

“Abhorrent, really.”

“Wrong in nearly every way.”

A beat of silence passed between them, and Padmé asked, “Why haven’t we done this before?”

“Because we’re morons,” Anakin replied, and they went back to kissing. 

Anakin kissed the way he did everything—with unbridled passion, intense focus, and the kind of deep consideration required of someone with his level of Force sensitivity. Every move Padmé made was met with one of his own; he reacted to her instead of the other way around, their Force bond swirling around them like a brewing thunderstorm.

She slid her leg up to his hip; he dug his thigh between her legs. She bit his lower lip; he pulled her nightgown to her waist to run his hand up her bare back. She shifted against his leg and clawed at his shoulder; he rutted his hardness against her and let out a soft groan.

Padmé took his hand and guided it between them, slotted it between her legs where he slipped into her underwear and glided his fingers over her wetness. She sighed against his mouth as he worked her slit, her lack of shielding and the intensity of the feeling washing over both of them. Padmé could no longer tell the difference between her mind and his. Everything turned into a single point of pleasure—Padmé fucking herself onto his hand, Anakin rutting against her hip, kissing between panted breaths.

_ Almost lost you can’t lose you need you, closer, closer,  _ echoed in their bond, some strange combination of both of their thoughts as they spiraled into the sweet rhythm of pleasure, instinct guiding them the same as eating or fighting or breathing, as easy as their bond had always been.

Padmé shoved at the waistband of Anakin’s pants and grasped him in hand, the tip of his cock wet in her palm as she slicked it downward. She paced herself to match his rhythm against her clit and was overcome with the need to be filled; it hit her so hard that she felt the echo of Anakin feeling it too, a desperate gaping void like a hunger she’d never felt.

Anakin rolled Padmé on her back, sliding between her legs, and sat up to tug at her underwear. She lifted her hips and he pulled them off of her, tossing them aside before leaning back down and kissing her exposed belly. He pushed up her nightgown until he reached her breasts, and kissed and laved at her nipples. Padmé watched him as he trailed back down her body and settled between her legs, mouthing at the dark patch of hair, kissing down to her slit. He trailed his tongue around her clit, neat little circles that had her bucking onto his face and fisting her hands in the sheets.

Out of all the filthy curses and dirty smiles, Padmé would have never guessed that this was the best use of Anakin’s mouth. He fucked her with his tongue, sucked on her clit, teased her with his teeth—everything she wanted, he picked up on and performed, a constant feedback loop that grew more precise with every movement until Padmé felt like she would burst.

She’d done this for herself before, a few times. She could even sometimes feel Anakin do it too, could pick out his thoughts and feelings from far away, a curious voyeur of his imagination. They never spoke of it, though; it was always an odd side-effect of their bond. Padmé liked to go into the dark corners of the archives and find the filthiest material on her day off, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t turn the safety on the hilt of her lightsaber and use it for decidedly non-violent purposes. It did vibrate, after all.

Anakin slipped a finger inside of her, then a second, fucking into her with the rhythm of his tongue against her clit. He pressed his fingers up, and all the air went out of Padmé’s lungs. With a couple more thrusts, she came with a cry, arching her back off the bed, hips shuddering against Anakin’s face. With all the grace of a lifelong trained fighter, Anakin met her movements, drew out her orgasm, wave after wave until they slowly subsided.

He pulled his fingers out and crawled up the bed, pushing his pants all the way off. She tasted herself on him when he kissed her again, and it made her cunt throb with renewed want. He slid his hardness against her, slick-wet with saliva and come. She wrapped her legs around his hips and pushed him closer to her, needing him inside her to fill the unceasing feeling of emptiness.

“Ani…” Padmé gasped, mind obliterated, panting and oversensitive.

He trailed kisses down her throat and whispered, “May I?”

It was such a stupid question when the flimsy veil of their separate identities lie shredded between them, and from the mouth of anyone else it would seem sweet, but Anakin and his power games—she felt him wanting to hear her want it, she felt him wanting to submit to her desires.

“Yes,” she managed. Physically, it came out as a quiet, cracked moan; in the Force it echoed loud enough to deafen. Anyone attuned to their direction would have felt it, like a tidal wave crashing over the entire Temple as the two most powerful Jedi in existence consummated their bond.

Padmé felt the blunt head of Anakin’s cock press against her entrance, stretching her open wider than she’d ever been able to do for herself. It was a sweet, slow pain, not unlike muscle soreness after a day of endurance training—a pain that aided in pleasure. Anakin took his time entering her completely, kissing her jaw and neck and chest, rubbing his hand up and down her side as he patiently waited for her to relax around him.

When he bottomed out inside her, Padmé was overcome with a feeling of completeness and peace stronger than her meditation had ever guided her. Every ounce of negativity she had ever attempted to squash in either herself or Anakin dissolved out of existence, and all that remained was their presence, beautiful and pure and simple—everything the Jedi stood for yet somehow disallowed could be found here, in the practice of bonding.

Anakin pulled out and thrust into her again, slow at first and then picking up a steady rhythm. Padmé clawed at his back, his ass, pushing him deeper into her. They kissed, and pulled apart only to breathe against each other’s mouths, panting and moving in time with each other.

Padmé shoved at the Force, hitting Anakin with everything she felt until the tattered remnants of their distance broke and their perceptions merged together—it had happened before only in split-seconds of time during a fight, gone in the blink of an eye. But now, it remained, and Padmé could feel the hot pulse that ran over Anakin’s body as he inched toward climax, the sweat at the small of his back, his unerring reverence and adoration of her.

Padmé had never before understood the extent to Anakin’s devotion, nor had she understood hers toward him. Their mentors had advised them that fear was the path to the dark side, but she never considered that their warnings were borne of the Council’s fear of Anakin and Padmé’s bond. 

Anakin’s movements turned shallow, his breathing grew faster. Padmé felt the pressure building in him, mirrored in her own body for feeling his. He stilled in her when he reached the apex, and kissed her softly on the lips before coming with a groaned exhale. Padmé came from the dual-perception alone, crying out again, walls clenching around him, tense around the pulse of his thick cock. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt tears prick at the edges from the intensity of it, the cycle of her feeling him feeling her feeling him nearly breaking her foothold on reality.

Once the pleasure subsided, Anakin pulled out of her and slumped to the side. Their Force presences began disentangling, like the sea tide falling back. She already missed him being inside her, both physically and in the unity of their bond, and wondered idly if they were ruined for each other now, if their addiction to this feeling would compromise their loyalty to the Order.

“Doubt it,” Anakin muttered, pulling her toward him so that their bodies curled around each other. He peppered her shoulders and neck with kisses, and was already mostly asleep as he mumbled, “You’re not that great.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me perpetually crying about Anakin Skywalker on [tumblr](http://www.bettydays.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/betty_days).


End file.
